


As It Should Be

by sunshinetina



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-23 23:16:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2559401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinetina/pseuds/sunshinetina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dortmund becomes a grey room with four dark walls and there is no escape from it. Or maybe there is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As It Should Be

**Author's Note:**

> Surprise, surprise! Another prompt fill for the 'footy ficathon': http://thesilverwitch.livejournal.com/31896.html?thread=649112#t649112
> 
> It is mainly based on Adam Lambert's 'Sleepwalker' (I heard it for the first time today lol), but I wanted the angst to have a happy ending, so I changed it a bit. 
> 
> P.S. Not saying Götzeus will be the death of me, but they already are. *sigh*

The rain in Dortmund tastes like acid. The sun probably too, but the thing is that it has been constantly raining for an year and a bit more. The skies are grey, the clouds are depressive, the wind is penetratingly icy.

 

The first months are the worst. The hesitation between _that’s his choice and you should support him because you are his best friend_ and _how could he hurt me so bad?_ are twisting like a knife in a still open wound. The most painful hours, however, are after midnight. There is no training, there are no Mats, Erik, Pierre, who can always cheer him up (subconsciously or not so, he soon realises), there are no pointlessly distracting him walks around Dortmund. It is just his sleep. Which isn’t coming.

 

By the end of the sixth month, Marco thinks that everything is slowly starting to fit in its place. He is killing his muscles off, he is losing his breath, and he is wasting all his energy – because he finds out that this is the best way not to think. Not to _forget_ but _not to think_. Because he can’t forget Mario and it doesn’t matter how strongly and devotedly he tries to, it is simply impossible.

 

 _I suggest you no longer tattoo yourself,_ Pierre says one evening, while opening another can of beer. Marco raises his eyebrows in confusion, _Mario has taken it all. He is tattooed all over you. Both outside and inside._

Marco just shakes his head vigorously, puffing and rolling his eyes, walking away. After awhile, the excuse of _I feel a bit sick_ starts being a hint of _I would lock myself up in the bathroom and think about Mario_.

 

And he doesn’t simply think. He elaborates on every single syllable that has ever come out of Mario’s mouth, and Marco loudly curses himself for not being able to remember everything. Because, _damn_ , he wasn’t prepared for Mario’s departure. Because he thought it was simple – as everything he wanted in his life – him coming to Dortmund to play with Mario, Mario being his best friend, the two of them staying there forever and making their common dreams come true.

 

 _Life is not that easy, Marco_ , is what Marco’s mother tells him the day after Mario leaves, _He may be wrong, but let him know it. And you... You just think about what’s really good for him._

How can anything else than Mario and Marco being together in Dortmund be _really good_? Is it possible at all? Are all of them blind?

 

There are nights when Marco’s fingers linger over his phone, tapping over some dumb picture of both of them, and it is as though he hears Mario’s voice in his ear, _Come here, Marco, let’s take a picture!_ and they immediately burst out laughing upon checking it afterwards. Marco keeps it, though, because he keeps everything that has Mario in it.

 

The tears also taste like acid. Marco closes his eyes, breathes in and out, and tries to focus on everything good that has ever been and is now gone. He sees the sparkle in Mario’s brown eyes, his shining smile and his pink bubble-cheeks. He hears Mario’s whisper in his earlobe, he senses his tickling breath on his own neck. He feels Mario’s palm on his hair and shakes his head as to rub on it. But Mario is not here, Mario is gone now.

 

Dortmund becomes a grey room with four dark walls and there is no escape from it. Everywhere he goes, it’s just another memory, another laugh, another talk shared with Mario. And all the places Marco used to know and call _our own runaway from the world_ are now always haunting him, reminding him of what might have been but would never be from now on. Every walk around the city now becomes desperate and on the verge of tragic, as he feels losing himself and being lonely in the town where he grew up and where he is always surrounded by people he knows better than himself. He doesn’t want any of them, though. _Mario_ is everything he wants. _But Mario doesn’t want him._

 

By the end of the ninth month, Marco is absolutely sure that Mario has never – not even once – felt that way in Munich. _Probably he is training and having fun at it, then going around the city with his new friends, and being endlessly happy,_ is what Marco thinks and it makes him feel angry and annoyed. He just shrugs it off, pays no attention to the red light in his head, screaming _call him_ , and spends all of himself into all the trainings.

 

They meet with the national team, they talk and Marco tries – God knows how much he tries – to smile and laugh (it all comes naturally with Mario, he soon realises) but deep down it hurts unbelievably and not a word Mario says can soothe this pain. They touch and Marco feels like even Mario’s touches are now acid – leaving him desperate for more, but hurting him altogether.

 

Then comes the injury. _Everything_ is acid now. _You’ll be alright_ is a phrase he pushes away from his ear by the tenth second. _You’ll be with us in Brazil_ is what he doesn’t want to hear either. No, he won’t be.

 

So, when Mario first calls, Marco doesn’t respond. He doesn’t answer on the next day either and the day after. When he does, though, it’s early in the morning – barely six o’clock – and he thinks it’s just a dream when he hears Mario’s chuckle in his ear.

 

‘How’s our patient?’

And Marco puffs, rubbing his eyes, ‘How’s Brazil?’

His voice is cold when he answers the odd question with an even odder one. He hears Mario gulp at the other end of the line, ‘So-so. I wish you were here.’

‘Well, Mario, life is like that – you can’t always have everything you wish for.’

They keep silent after this. Marco is on the verge of apologising.

 

‘Why are you like that, Marco? I thought we were ok by now.’

‘I will never be ok’, Marco laughs sarcastically, ‘But, as I said, life is like that.’

‘André sends regards’, Mario changes the topic and Marco hears the other man’s cheering in the background, ‘Get well soon.’

‘Will try.’

‘Marco?’

 

‘Hm?’

‘If I score a goal...’ Mario pauses, taking a loud breath, ‘It will be for you. Only for you.’

He scores. He calls again but Marco doesn’t answer. Months ago, it was Marco’s pass and Mario’s goal (or vice versa) and it was _their_ celebration that followed. Now it was all gone.

 

_Sorry we didn’t win. But the goal was for you._

He doesn’t respond to the message and it comes as no surprise that Mario is no longer an active part of the team after that. He is often subbed, then completely benched, out of the spot light.

 

_Marco, I miss you._

And the four words sound so simple but they both know it’s not like that. Marco smiles vaguely, deliberating whether he should respond to that. He doesn’t.

 

_Today’s the final. We’ll play for you too._

 

Marco knows fully well what day is today – he’s been mentally preparing himself for hours. His phone buzzes again.

 

_I miss you._

Marco’s lips shiver and barely curve in a smile as he types hastily, _You’ll be great._ Then adds in a next message, _You’ll be great, Sunny._

 

When the ball flies into the net, Marco’s heart stops for a second. He sees Mario in the arms of their teammates, sees him being stunned while arranging his hair, sees his lips tremble upon the realisation of what he has done. Marco smiles to himself and barely hears the final whistle when he turns the telly off.

 

Germany are _Weltmeisters_. Everything is strangely quiet as he lands in bed, tossing the bedsheets over his head. His unequal breathing betrays him but he just shuts his eyes, trying to shut his mind as well. His phone buzzes half an hour later.

 

_I wish you were here. Damn, I wish I was there, with you. I just need you around, Marco. I miss you so much. Congrats! :)_

Marco shakes his head, _It was your win, Sunny, it was your goal. You did great. You are great._

Mario beams in a smile and makes a hand gesture at Thomas to go away for awhile, _It was all you, though. The goal is all yours._

Marco doesn’t text anymore. Neither does Mario. But when the first thing Marco sees the next morning is Mario with the medal around his neck and _Reus_ shirt in his hands, Marco feels the stab in his chest. He looks through the window and for the first time in more than an year, it is not raining. The sun is blinding him and he smirks as its rays caress his face. He types slowly and carefully, smiling all the way.

 

_Where did you steal my shirt from?_

The answer comes quickly and instantaneously brings a smile to his face, _I keep everything connected to you. Even this old toothbrush with Mickey Mouse on it, remember?_

Marco giggles and bites his lips, _Thank you. Means a lot._

_Did you ever doubt me? I told you I would dedicate everything to you._

_Not the trophy, though._

_If it means I would get you back, I give everything._

Marco feels his cheeks firing up and takes a deep breath, pouring himself entirely into the short message he is about to send, _You’ve always had me, Sunny. Despite acting like an idiot._

Mario smiles when reading the message and blinks several times, licking his lips, _I am not the only idiot here, stubborn man. Besides, I never stopped thinking about you._

_I never stopped loving you, Sunny_ is the immediate reply Mario gets and he feels his heart skipping several beats.

 

 _And I will never stop loving you, Marcinho_ is what Mario sends back.

 

The skies are bright now, the clouds are white and fluffy, there is no wind. Marco smiles as he limps slightly while walking towards the balcony. He sees places and he hears voices, and he envisions memories. But they no longer haunt him, they help him. They help him remember that distance doesn’t matter when there is someone out there who truly means something to you. They help him realise that Pierre is right, after all: Mario _is_ tattooed all over him, carved deep inside him and there’s no remedy to that. Marco breathes in and breathes out. The air is no longer acid. It is as it should be. _Tasting like Mario._


End file.
